Blood and Cling Film
by SassyJ
Summary: AU. Harold Finch has secrets. John Reese would like to know some of those secrets, but he gets more than he bargained for when he stumbles across a clue in a book. Before John, there were a couple of lives saved. One such life preserves a secret.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This kinda fell into place when I was talking about my tattoos with a friend. How tattoos are not just a fashion victim thing, nor are they the preserve of gang members and hairy bikers. It's definitely AU, and then I thought about what Harold did with numbers before Reese, and how there might have been one or two that he could have saved.

* * *

"Who is she, Finch?" _Not a number, that was for sure._ John Reese had tried all sorts of oblique ways to get more information on his elusive boss. Observation was the one that panned out the most. Asking Finch direct questions had a tendency to prompt zero answers.

A number-free day and idle curiosity had led Reese to a book. Inside the pages of the book, a sketch. Detailed, elegant, a name - Kari signed in elaborate script in the corner. Initials and a number.

It was a beautiful picture, more of a design than a picture, a dove was the central theme, entwined in ivy. The eyes of the dove seemed to be pleading to be set free.

Then Finch had caught Reese admiring it. "She's very good." Reese said, to cover the embarrassment of being caught openly prying.

"She, Mr Reese?" There was an odd inflection in Finch's voice.

"Kari." Reese looked up with real curiosity. Finch sounded embarrassed. He was actually blushing.

Finch turned away. "An artist I know." His tone did not invite further inquiry and that piqued Reese's interest. A day off, no number in sight, Carter busy in court, Taylor on a field trip, Reese was at a loose end.

Besides Finch had said artist that he knew. In the present tense, implying that this was something that was part of Finch's life right now. Something a little more complex than green tea, or a corner café and eggs Benedict.

Reese figured that if she was an artist, she was bound to have a business. Perhaps it would be something as a simple as a search in a telephone directory. And he had a day to play with.

There were five businesses with the word Kari in the name. The first two turned out to be ladieswear boutiques and no one in them was actually called Kari. The next one on the list was a flower shop, the lady proprietor had bought the shop from a friend who had named it after her deceased grandmother. Which left two.

One in Brooklyn, one on 96th. It was the cupcake bakery in Brooklyn which won the day, if this slightly frustrating hunt proved to be fruitless, Reese knew the cupcakes would make Carter a very happy woman after a long court case.

He drove out to the bakers, purchased six cupcakes. Then having satisfied his need to please Carter, Reese went in search of the tantalizing snippet of information he had on Finch.

An artist called Kari.

Kari's of Brooklyn proved to be a gift shop. Though this time, the owner's name was Kari. As soon as he mentioned art, the motherly middle-aged woman smiled, "Oh dear me, hon, no. You want the tattoo parlour on Sun Street. It's a couple of blocks over." She gave directions. "The shop's called Infinity Tattoo. It's very popular."

Reese's curiosity radar was pinging double time, but he dutifully bought Carter another gift, taking another five minutes for gift wrapping before he departed.

Infinity Tattoo on Sun Street proved to be a huge double fronted shop, and judging by the level of traffic entering and leaving, had a diverse clientele and was clearly, as Kari the gift shop owner had said, very popular.

Just why Finch would knew a tattoo artist out in Brooklyn was the only thing ticking through Reese's mind.

He went in. There was a waiting room, a reception desk, and behind the desk and to the side he could see cubicles where various artists were plying their trade.

The receptionist was a young, sharp-featured girl in her early twenties. "Here for tattoo or piercing, hon?"

"I'd like to see Kari," Reese evaded the other question. He was long past the age of getting anything pierced, and not here for a tattoo. Just curiosity and another tiny piece of the puzzle that was Harold Finch.

"Well you are in luck, hon. Kari will be finished in about ten minutes and her next slot cancelled fifteen minutes ago. So I'll pencil you in. If you'd like to take a seat."

Reading upside down was almost a required skill, and Reese stared intently at the large diary in front of him. Several artists in the shop, but clearly the most popular was Kari. Her appointments were back to back, with the one tiny gap where the girl was pencilling in Reese's name.

Reese turned his attention to the walls of the reception area. Photographs of tattoos, some with original drawings preserved beside them. There were works of art too. Kari's name featured prominently amongst them. He studied her paintings, mostly gothic in style, but there was a wistful beauty to them that he found strangely hypnotic and soothing.

"Mr Reese." He turned round. She was a sharp-featured girl in her late twenties, the resemblance to the receptionist obvious. They had to be sisters. Where her sister's eyes were a pale blue, Kari's were almost silver. Intense. Reese could feel himself being assessed from head to toe. She probably knew his measurements and weight without asking.

What she saw seemed to satisfy her, "this way," she turned and headed towards a large cubicle at the back.

Reese followed her. "Have a seat." He sat on the large adjustable chair that she indicated.

She took her seat on the small stool beside the chair and picked up a sketch pad. Looked up at him, a searching look, her smile was friendly but clearly amused.

He raised an eyebrow.

She clarified. "He said you would come."

Reese didn't bother with the obvious question, who. He could almost sense Finch's presence despite having turned his phone off, and put his earwig away in the case in his pocket.

It was not exactly a surprise, but slightly disconcerting that his elusive employer and friend had read him that easily.

Kari was sketching on her pad.

"People come to me for lots of reasons." She said, "and not always the reasons you might think. Tattooing can be for remembrance, to conceal something, or reveal something of a person's nature. It isn't all gangs and hairy bikers. Or fashion victims for that matter."

Reese pondered that while her hand seemed to be moving across the pad of it's own volition.

"Why did Finch come?"

Kari's smile was enigmatic, "I never talk about my clients, Mr Reese." Her hand seemed to be moving more quickly, "he said you would ask that too."

"You're not Finch's cousin or something?"

"No." She stopped drawing and studied it for a second. "He also said if you wanted something he would pick up the tab."

She turned the pad around.

In that moment Reese decided that he was definitely up against something supernatural here.

Two tigers, one clearly male, standing protectively over a smaller female, the two tarot cards behind, the hanged man with his promise of knowledge and self-sacrifice, and justice, the karma card.

He had never really considered a tattoo, even if he had, he had no idea about design. Kari seemed to have read his aura and conjured something from the depths of her imagination which fit him exactly. Suddenly he was thinking about it.

He could also understand how Harold with his brilliant mind and secretive nature would find himself drawn to this enigmatic girl with her long, narrow silvery eyes, and pale hair.

Slowly he nodded.

She turned from witch to business woman in the flick of a switch.

"I need you to fill this out." She handed him a clipboard with a printed form on it. "Since it's Harold," he noted with some amusement that she glanced towards the door to see if she had closed it behind them, "whatever name you put on the form will be just fine."

He took the clipboard and scribbled his name, a dead drop address that sprang to mind, a burn phone number that had been dropped six months ago, worked his way through the _no boxes_ alongside all the various medical conditions, signed to swear that he was sober, not on any drugs, legal or otherwise, in his right mind, and had a bath that very morning. Agreed with Kari where he wanted the tattoo to go and obediently took his jacket and shirt off.

Watched her sanitise everything, wrapping the arm of the chair that she had slotted into place in cling film. "Take a seat, get comfortable and relax, I'll just go and get this sized, and then we'll look at the placement."

He sat down, and made himself comfortable, resting his elbow on the carefully sanitised arm of the chair, the plastic slick and cold beneath his skin, the antiseptic smell curiously reassuring.

She returned with paper in hand. "You comfortable?"

"Yeah."

She sat down, made herself comfortable. Wiped his upper arm down with the same antiseptic cleanser. The solution cool against his skin. Positioned the design carefully and pressed it against his arm.

"How does that look?" She indicated the mirror behind her, and he glanced across.

"Fine."

"So we're good to go." Kari assembled her needle gun, "okay, the deal is, any time this gets to you, or you just want to take a break, say so. If you start to feel whoozy, say so and we take a break. Just breathe normally and relax."

"I have some experience with needles," he muttered drily.

She raised an eyebrow, "I've had tough guys, been all round the world, seen every damn thing, survived falls, crashes, come off bikes. They sit down in that chair having seen it all, been there, done that. And a tiny ring of seven needles starts up. They pass out in a heap on the floor." She gave him the full wise-ass look. "Do you really want me to go on?"

"No ma'am."

"I'm not ma'am. Kari, or K. But not, ma'am."

He smirked at that. She certainly gave as good as she got.

"Here we go."

The needle buzzed and he steeled himself.

It wasn't too bad, certainly nothing like having needles shoved through his ulna nerve and brachial plexus. Although the pain of that was made worse by having to use his arm afterwards. The buzzing and the vibration was mildly irritating.

She outlined the piece, and slowly but surely he felt it take shape as he closed his eyes and drifted peacefully.

She lovingly applied the design to his skin, this was the part she loved, the creation. Sound instincts and experience told her that he was just drifting. So while he drifted, she thought about the things that she could have told him. The secrets that were not hers to reveal.

How eighteen months ago, a small guy on crutches had come to her and warned her that her baby sister was in danger. How she wouldn't ordinarily have believed him, but his cultured voice, bookish appearance, and the fact that he had dragged himself on crutches all the way out to the wilds of Brooklyn, where he stood out like a sore thumb, convinced her to take him seriously. How he had helped her with enough information to wrest her sister from the clutches of a disastrous relationship. How she paid him back with a piece of artwork, and information whenever he asked for it, with no questions asked on her side.

How once a month he took her to lunch, always different restaurants in different places, how they talked of art and books, and computers and how she knew he was a kickass programmer but not what he actually did, and how he knew who her favorite artists were, and how she got inside her clients' heads and seemingly read their minds to create perfect designs for their bodies. How body shape and body image didn't matter to her, she was creating for the soul within.

Harold hadn't told her about Reese, until the day, a month ago she had seen him going into a building with a taller, younger man who seemed to fill the role of bodyguard. At their next lunch three days later, Kari mentioned the big guy in the smart suit and Harold reluctantly admitted he was working with the man, John Reese.

He didn't say what John's job was, and in accord with the boundaries of their relationship, Kari didn't ask. She knew that whatever Harold did, he helped people, and that was all she needed to know. Hiring a big, physically capable guy to help out with that made good sense.

Now John Reese was here in her tattoo parlour, asking about Harold. It was kinda funny when you thought about it. Harold had sounded a little amused by it when he rang to say that Reese was probably on the way.

Up close and personal, John Reese was tall, dark and handsome, lean-built, with that cool watchfulness that said military or similar. Kari Stephens was an expert in body type and John's body was the result of years of honing in the field, not a Saturday night special courtesy of some swanky gym.

She had seen plenty of tough guys melt into a puddle when she started work, John was an exception, perversely he seemed to find the buzz of the needle soothing.

With the outline finished, Kari looked up. "You want to take a break?" Wordlessly he shook his head. She raised an eyebrow, "when I said relax, I didn't mean slip into a coma." He smirked at that, "I was just getting comfortable."

"Tell that to the marines."

His smirk widened. "Very funny. Did your friend Harold tell you that?"

"No. Harold didn't." She began the shading, "years of experience, I've been doing this since I was eighteen years old. You didn't get to be you by working out in some ritzy gym, and you've been a lot further than the mean streets of Brooklyn." She gently wiped the excess ink and studied the shaded stripe that she had made. It looked good. She drew a lot of inspiration from the oriental artists. The three month trip that Harold paid for had given her a new perspective.

He had gone quiet again and she looked up. "John, you know all that you need to know about Harold. He's let you in this far. And that's a lot more than most people know about him. Believe me, Harold gives you something to believe in, it's best to go forward understanding that what you know is what is safe for you to know. Safe for you as well as him." She turned back to the task in hand.

* * *

Joss Carter pushed open her front door, wondering what she would find behind it. John had a habit of appearing out of nowhere. It was pointless locking her front door. He got in anyway. In a fit of annoyance, she gave him a key. He picked the lock in nothing flat anyway. Just because he could, and he was trying to get a laugh out of her. And when he did, he would smirk that smirk, and she would be torn between wanting to beat him to a pulp and drag him into the station in handcuffs, and diving headlong into his arms.

There was a fancy cupcake box and a brown paper bag on the kitchen table, and John was stretched out on the couch.

Joss deliberately detoured into the kitchen. Appearing too eager to see her suit guy would be a mistake. Give John Reese an inch, he would take several miles.

She opened the cupcake box, six perfect, luscious, tasty cupcakes sat in regally expensive boxed splendour within. Joss selected a peach one, she could sense John's smirk even from there in the kitchen. He would know which one she would take. Joss was almost tempted to put it back and select another one, but damn, he was messing with her head now.

As she peeled back the paper she took a peek inside the brown bag. "Are you cooking tonight," _clingfilm, nappy rash cream and micropore tape?_

"No. I had takeout in mind."

She joined him on the sofa. "So what's with the clingfilm and the nappy rash cream." He reached into his pocket and handed her a little card.

"You got a tattoo?" Carter's eyebrows nearly hit her hairline.

He nodded. "I went out to Brooklyn, came back with six cupcakes and a tattoo. And all I wanted was information."

"Show me."

That lazy smirk peeked out again, "Detective, you just want me to take my shirt off," he shrugged out of his jacket, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Any excuse, but right now I just want to see this mysterious tattoo." He peeled his shirt off slowly, seemingly enjoying the look of curiosity in her eyes.

His right bicep had been wrapped in cling film, micropore tape holding it to his skin. Joss could see blood beneath the wrap, and the area was warm to the touch.

"Hey, I get to take the cling film off, bathe it, leave it exposed to the air for fifteen minutes and wrap it all up again." He consulted his watch, "in about half an hour."

"Well, I can't pretend to understand why, or what you were doing in Brooklyn, but if you wanted a tattoo, this place at least seems to understand hygiene."

John smiled. He was sure that by now Finch would have had a full account of Mr Reese's attempt to get the goods on him. And how Miss Kari Stephens was a good choice for gatekeeper of secrets. He looked forward to round two of their sparring match.


	2. Chapter 2

He stood in front of the basin, and filled it with warm water and a little soap. _Take off the cling film, bathe the tattoo, washing away the excess ink. Rinse. Repeat._ Simple enough. _Pat dry with a towel. Let the air get to it. Smother it in nappy rash cream, re-wrap in cling film. Don't shower._

Simple enough. Although, he really couldn't say exactly why he had done it. Kari Stephens was unusual. He guessed about 28, little sister about 23. How and why Harold Finch should know Kari Stephens was a mystery, one that John felt sure he could solve. He just wasn't sure why he needed to solve it. But it wasn't Kari, or Finch that was in his heart when he sat down. Carter filled his dreams and his waking moments. He needed her. Him who didn't need anybody. Somehow a young woman whom he had never met, and who didn't know Carter either, had read his longing, _his need_, and had put his heart on his sleeve.

He really shouldn't be doing this clean up here. Carter did not need a damaged ex-CIA agent with the sword of Damocles hanging over him. She needed a decent, solid citizen with minimal baggage to cherish her and appreciate her.

But it broke his tattered heart in two to think of that. He had an almost pathological need for Carter's approval. He wanted… no, needed to win her love. Figuring out why he had these needs was taking more processing time than he believed his brain was capable of.

He could kill a person, he could mount a rescue, and save the day, but he had no idea why or how he could love someone. No holds barred.

Until Finch found him in a police station, and gave him a purpose. Even Jessica, he realized now that he was fond of Jessica, and a little mesmerized by the thought of being in love with her. But if he had truly loved her with an unbreakable bond he would have stayed and been able to protect her. Being unable to protect her filled him with guilt and righteous anger. It exposed the barrenness in his soul.

So John had fallen down several liquor bottles, and tried to think of creative ways to end his suffering.

Finch appeared before he could destroy himself. Straightened him up, quite forcefully, and then gave him an option. John realized that he wanted to live.

Now Carter stirred his heart in ways that he wasn't sure he really understood and never expected. The tattoo, and caring for the tattoo here, in her bathroom, was unwise and he knew it. He was laying his heart out for her to trample on.

A footstep behind him and she was there. Wordlessly, she took the sponge from his hand and dropped it into the mildly soapy water. Her small strong hand slid gently round his elbow, and she peeled back the clingfilm. The touch of her fingers light on his skin, she began to gently bathe the tattoo.

The warm water trickling down his skin, the soft touch of the sponge over the inflamed area, her fingers, light and delicate, cradling his elbow. Even the water itself, flowing over his arm, her hand. Contact. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones.

It was her touching him with gentle hands, the first since Jessica. Jocelyn Carter had bashed down all his defenses. This was several kinds of crazy, but he needed her. He quivered with suppressed emotion then, looking down into her eyes he knew that she understood, and that overwhelmed him.

She finished up, patting the area dry, and he followed obediently as she drew him towards the bedroom.

Taylor was out staying with his grandmother. They wouldn't be interrupted.

Just for tonight, Joss told herself, knowing that it was never going to be just one night.

His touch was gentle, and endearingly unsure, as though he was scared to push too hard. She realized then that he respected her and didn't want to do anything that might upset her, in sharp contrast to his teasing behavior outside where he felt secure. She looked down at the slightly reddened flesh of his right arm, the tigers, realized too what John was saying to her. He might not have intended to say it so blatantly, but the artist had helped him over that last barrier.

Strong, confident, bold, cocky John Reese, hesitant? Her heart melted with love for him.

Her hands wound around his neck and pulled him down to her. His arms slid hesitantly around her body. His forearms resting on her hips. His hands tentative and gentle on her back. But Joss wanted more.

She wanted to possess him, tap the passion that she knew beat strongly in his heart. The only way to do that would be to let him in. All the way.

Skin to skin, nothing between them. Nothing to hide behind. A truce.

Just for tonight.

She took his hand and led him to the bed.

Still holding his hand, she lifted the quilt and slid in, leaving plenty of room, she tugged gently. For the briefest space of time he resisted. She looked up into his face, trying to read his expression. John was so adept at hiding his feelings that was nearly impossible. Gently, she brought his hand to her lips, kissed his fingers, watched something change in those somber grey-blue eyes, an emotion so intense they changed to silver.

It could have been a trick of the light, but then he dropped the towel around his waist, and slid in beside her.

It was the first time she had seen him completely naked, and her eyes drank in his beauty, as her hands pulled the quilt over him, concealing him from prying eyes. A response which she knew to be irrational as they were alone; but came from some primal instinct she hadn't realized that she possessed.

He was everything she now accepted that she had dreamed he would be. Long and lean and elegant, his body honed by experience and training, not the bulked up power of the gym gorilla, but the power invoked by the whole package. John wasn't just an aggressor, his skills went beyond following orders. There was nothing of the grunt about him. He was the weapon.

She had no illusions, in one way Snow was right John _was_ dangerous, he was materially damaged by his experiences, but there was something within him that still beat strong and true. It broke her heart to think of what he had suffered, and the damage that it had done to him. Whatever this was between them, it would never be conventional, but they could have tonight, and every other night that they could steal, and they would be happy. They should take that momentary happiness, because life was a series of moments.

His free hand framed her face, those strong fingers tenderly caressing her cheek. She let his hand go then, winding both arms around his neck, pulling him up close. And very personal.

Her slender knee slid over his hip, her calf muscle curving over his thigh as she pressed herself against him. John's hands lifted her, and he rolled, sweeping her on top of him. His hands curved around her waist. Joss stared down into his eyes as he drew her in slowly.

That sexy confident smirk was back on his face again. She was going to have to tell him off for that sometime later. His fingers were playing her body like a harp as she slid down. He reached up and captured her lips as their rhythm increased.

Joss let go of rational thought, and control. There was only this, skin on skin, and the flight of ecstasy.

When she awoke, somehow she thought he would be gone, but he was still there. Curled around her, completely relaxed in sleep. His right arm curved possessively across her small waist. His right thigh pressing her legs into the mattress. She could feel the warmth of his long leg virtually pinning her against him. He wasn't especially heavy, but he was strong, until either he woke up, or she managed to wake him, she wasn't going anywhere.

It was both mildly irritating, and curiously comforting. John's possessive gesture made her smile. She relaxed against him, reveling in the feel of his skin against hers, the contrast in the warm tones of her flesh and the cool tones of his. She slid her hand over his right forearm, coming to rest at the base of the clingfilm.

She didn't remember re-wrapping the tattoo, guessing he must have at some point in the night. He could have left then, but he hadn't. He had returned to claim her as his own.

Joss's small hand curved around his right elbow then, a possessive display of her own. This was insane, and she had a lot to lose if they were caught, and heaven alone knew what would happen to him in that case, but this was John and he was hers. She really couldn't help herself.

The memory, unbidden, popped into her head of the night John was shot. How she, with the best of her cop training and backed up by the vows she had made as serving officer, had ignored every single instinct that was screaming in her head and betrayed this man to the people who she knew had no intention of helping him.

It felt like a knife in her own gut, when she had seen him go down from a shot to his gut. Then he shot the car lights out, was hit a second time in the thigh, how he managed to get to his feet and make his escape she would never know. He wanted to live, his instinct was to survive, he could have shot and killed her. If he was the paranoid killer that Snow described, he would have done it without blinking. Snow had lied, and Joss had betrayed him. She followed his trail of blood down the stairs, dying a little inside at each fresh splash. Opening the door at the bottom of the stairs and seeing the little guy from the lock up robbery nearly sent her over the edge.

But she obeyed her instinct then. Helped John into the car. She had done him enough damage and if he was killed then by the men that she had brought down on him she knew she wouldn't recover from the guilt.

She laid a gentle hand over the clingfilm again. He had done that for her. Her only real experience of tattoos was the gang markings which spelled only trouble. The artist here had read John like a book and then illustrated what was in his heart for her. The skin was cooler to the touch beneath the wrapping, the whole area less inflamed, the clingfilm was neatly stretched over his bicep, so she could see more detail. There was a look in the male tiger's eyes. A look she had seen in John's when he was looking into hers.

He was hers.

Carter's grip tightened around his arm. "Mine." She whispered.

His head was resting against hers, his lips close to her ear, she felt the smirk. "No, mine." The gravelly voice teasing her senses.

He swung himself over her in a swift move, catching his weight on his elbows, his body skimming hers. Joss Carter was having none of that, she wanted him, as up close and personal as it was possible to get.

"uh-uh." Her legs were free, she wrapped them around his waist then, her arms around his neck and she pulled hard. Taken by surprise, he collapsed against her. Joss's arms wrapped themselves tightly around him, "Mine." She couldn't quite keep the triumph out of her voice.

His face was buried in her neck, his whole body locked to hers, his weight pushing her into the mattress. Joss's body was enjoying the sensations of his lean frame pressed against her. "I think someone once said that possession was nine tenths of the law." She whispered in his ear, and nibbled a little on his earlobe.

"Feels like the whole ten tenths," that sexy, lazy, gravelly, seductive voice coursed through her, and Joss's thighs tightened over his hips.

He was strong, but even in the throes of passion his self-control was remarkable. He would not use that power against her. She understood then that he would have died for her on top of that parking garage. That no word of condemnation would have passed his lips. That for all the damage done, John Reese was still a good and decent man, trying to do his best in a world long since gone mad.

She pressed her cheek to his, wrapped her arms more tightly around him, and closed her eyes. Silently promising him that she would protect him. And Harold Finch too, for that matter.

* * *

Harold Finch escorted Kari Stephens through the Member's Dining Room. Not that he would ever have admitted it openly, but lunch with Kari at the Metropolitan Museum of Art was one of Harold Finch's greatest pleasures. Kari was a woman who did as she pleased, and he was well aware that beneath her relatively conservative clothing the many designs on Kari's body would certainly raise eyebrows in this well to do establishment.

Today the black jeans were Versace, and the long-sleeve, round-neck black sweater was cashmere, a world away from Kari's usual uniform of non-descript and baggy layers over ripped jeans. When they first dined out, Harold had been in a fever of nervousness over what she might turn up wearing. Something that Kari had accurately divined. The light in her gray eyes made Harold shift a little uncomfortably in his seat.

They lingered over salmon and a glass of crisp wine, he watched her toy with a square inch of salmon on her plate. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, she looked up "Harold, you know I never discuss my clients." He smiled at that, knowing that he would never ask, just as he was sure that John wouldn't ask that question of Kari.

"You really are a witch, aren't you?"

"I told you that when we first met." She smiled. "But then you pointed me towards something that I had been blind to. I would say there's something of the wizard about you, Harold."

He laughed at that.

"One day, you will let me read your cards."

He shrugged. "One day."


	3. Chapter 3

"Jerry… wake up, sleepy head."

Something was wrong with that. He frowned, trying to clear his head and work out why it was wrong. His head ached.

He was in bed. Wearing navy blue cotton pyjamas. Those didn't seem quite right either, and then there was the cast. His left leg was in a cast which ran from his ankle to the top of his thigh. That definitely didn't make sense. He couldn't remember such an injury. Surely he would remember that.

Samantha had explained it all, but it still didn't feel right. He didn't want to ask her again though, there was something in her pale blue eyes that scared him.

Her eyes were blue. That was wrong.

She was sitting down on the bed, she had a large tray with breakfast on it. Her hip brushed his and he tried not to shrink away. It was important not to make Samantha angry.

She was smiling at him. "Here, drink your juice."

He didn't want to drink it, but he was weak and lethargic, with a strange heaviness to his limbs; so he wasn't able to resist when she put her hand behind his head and raised him up. Slumped against her he obediently took a sip of the juice. He didn't want to. Every time he drank the juice he felt worse. More disconnected, his vision would blur and there was a cold sick feeling in his stomach.

His vision blurred again.

She let him fall back to the bed as her cell rang in her pocket. "I just topped up, he wouldn't recognize his own grandmother." Then she moved away and he couldn't hear anymore.

Some primal instinct told him he had to get away, but he could barely move. His ached all over, he curled up as far as his helpless body was able. It was an effort to move his hand, but he slid his left hand up his right arm, pushing the sleeve up, if he squinted he could see it, _the tigers_, he didn't belong here, he belonged to someone else. He just didn't know who.

He didn't know who he was or where he was, or why he was lying in this bed with his leg in a cast, he just knew this was all wrong, and he needed to figure out how to get away from there.

* * *

The sheet was already covering the body as Carter left the car, she looked around, saw Fusco hovering on the edge of the cordon. It was the look of confused distress on his face that stopped her in her tracks.

She looked down at the sheet covered body. _NOOOOOO…_ She crouched, and stretched a tentative hand out towards the sheet.

It wasn't him. She was almost giddy with the relief that rocketed through her. Although he looked enough like John that it might have been him. Black hair, graying at the temples, tall and lean, about 6'2", _John's height_. The resemblance between the two men startling.

Their floater was dressed in navy blue pyjamas, with a mangled, stained plaster cast around his left leg running from ankle to the top of the thigh.

"No ID. No distinguishing features." Fusco glanced at his pad. He seemed at a loss.

"Looks just like my guy." Carter finished quietly.

Fusco nodded. John had been gone almost ten hours. Finch was frantic. And the person that they were pursuing was a false name.

Jocelyn Carter knew that this was connected. A man, John's height and build and physical description, dead in the East River. John missing. Not the CIA this time. Something was up with the woman that John was chasing, and if this man was dead, John's life was probably in danger.

Feeling sick with fear was a luxury that she could not afford.

The woman he knew as Samantha was back again. She was talking on the phone and she sounded agitated. He lay very still on his side and pretended to be asleep. Whatever was in the juice that she kept forcing down his throat was some kind of narcotic. If he could keep her from drugging him again, he might be able to get away.

There was the question of the cast on his leg, but that seemed to be a fake. He didn't know what this was all about, he just needed to escape.

"I've spent too long setting up the Jerry and Samantha Sanders' identities to stop now. Now it's not dangerous. I just need him to be able to sign the paperwork, and then we can finish him off." She was pacing now. "The cops are clueless. He'll be dead and gone before they know what hit them."

* * *

Finch dug and dug. His back and neck were agony, the only thing keeping him in his seat was the certainty that John's life was at stake. He knew he could send John out in the world and that one day he might run into a physical situation that he would not be able to handle. But this number. This time. He knew now that the reason their previous information did not quite add up, was not anomalies in the system, or someone trying to kill their number, but that this number was a killer. A serial killer.

So Finch began to look for patterns. When you broke it down, everything was just patterns.

The pattern that slowly emerged from the mass of irrelevancies was so cruel and twisted in nature that Finch felt physically sick. He had put John within reach of this woman's evil.

If Reese died now, Finch would never forgive himself.

So he popped a pill, ignored the pain and continued his quest for the elusive Mr Reese.

* * *

He closed his eyes. He was hurting all over, whatever was in that mickey that she kept slipping him was causing some serious impairment to his motor functions.

He thought he heard her go out, but that might have been his imagination, however, he wasn't in a position to waste time. He might never have another chance. He was weak and dizzy, but he wanted to live, he was getting out if he had to crawl.

He pushed the quilt back with difficulty, eased his legs down to the floor, and pushed off from the wall and sat up. The room spun a little, but he didn't have time for that. Cautiously he got to his feet, it was difficult to lever himself up with the cast on his leg but he made it.

Walking was difficult with the cast, but he wasn't going to hang about looking for a way to cut it off, his balance was all over the place, he nearly fell down the stairs, he fell over in the hallway, but then he was at the front door, and it was open, so he fell through.

Outside was bright, and cold, and the fresh air didn't seem to improve his headache. _Get away_, the where didn't seem important. It was wet under foot, the ground stony beneath his bare feet. He was starting to feel light-headed, like he was about to pass out.

He could hear a car coming, _Her_. He picked up his pace, ignoring the pain of the uneven ground under his sensitive feet and then the wet grass. He pushed his way through the bushes. Anything to get away now.

He pushed on. "JERRY!" She was at the house, surely she could see him.

* * *

Finch wished he could be sure, but he just wasn't. Something about Jerry Sanders did not fit quite right. The insurance policy was just too big.

He was taking a chance now and Reese's life hung in the balance. They were out of time and out of options and if Carter didn't run with this, the next call out she would be likely to have would be for John's body.

Harold Finch could not let that happen.

He dialed her number. "Detective Carter, I have the address for you." Quickly he gave it to her.

He wanted desperately to say something about John, how badly he needed to be there when they found John.

Joss listened to Finch's calm, cultured voice over the cell, and read between the lines. Whatever the apparent employer/employee relationship between Harold Finch and John Reese, the two men cared deeply about each other. She hadn't been privy to their conversation the night her interference had got John shot, but the intensity of the little man's glare when she caught up to them in the parking lot had seared itself into Joss's mind.

She sighed inwardly as she said it, "Where can I pick you up from?"

He named a quiet little café on a corner and she said "Ten minutes." He agreed.

She hung up, snagging her keys, and Fusco, lurking determinedly by the photocopier, trying to pretend that he didn't know what was at stake.

Joss raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Lionel backed down and scurried to catch up with her.

Whatever she said openly, this situation really had Joss worried. The torrent of information that had found its way into her hands courtesy, _no doubt_ of the quiet courtly little man who had pulled John from the streets and saved his life; well that information chilled her to the bone.

Joss really hoped that this lead panned out, because if it didn't John would die. And she couldn't… would never… deal with that.

* * *

He could go no further. Whatever strength he had left was draining away. He remembered his name was John, and his friend Harold had saved him. Several times.

"Sorry, Harold, I think I need you to save me again." He croaked, slumping against a tree. He slid quietly down, sitting on the wet cold ground. "Hurry." He muttered.

He could hear her in the distance, it was now a race between his friend, and the woman who wanted to kill him for the insurance. Good versus evil. He smiled a little at that, a battle for the soul he was certain he had lost, until a reclusive, secretive billionaire with a genius for computers, but not people, found him and saved him.

It was all jumbled up in his head. A pair of dark eyes and beautiful smile caressed the edge of his memory. "Joss." Her name was on his lips as he passed out.

* * *

Samantha Sanders made Joss Carter's flesh crawl. There was something hard and feral in the blue eyes, a coldness about her persona. When Joss asked about her husband Jerry, she could detect the slightest flicker of fear in the other woman.

Joss started to press the point, with a casual glance back to see where Lionel was, and Finch.

Harold Finch had got out of the car, ostensibly to stretch his legs, but in reality he couldn't sit still in comfort while John was out there having god knows what done to him.

The ground of the driveway was rough and stony, uncomfortable to walk across, doubly so if your body was as damaged as Harold's was. He toed a large sharp stone out of his path, which was when he saw it. A splash of blood. He didn't need a cop's knowledge to know that this was fresh blood. Senses sharpened, Finch looked around. There was another, then another, with a quick glance back to check to see where Carter and Fusco were, he started to follow the splashes.

They were very small, those splashes, but they led directly, if a little erratically to some thick bushes on the other side of the driveway. Then they ended. Finch nearly growled in anger. He looked around, Carter was still preoccupied with the woman, Fusco looking a little bored.

Fusco's apparent boredom vanished when Finch gestured to him.

Together they pushed through the bushes, there was a definite track of someone walking. The terrain was rough and slippery, and Finch found himself falling behind.

Lionel Fusco had not had the best of introductions to John Reese. While Reese might have been the bane of Lionel's existence, the grumpy detective knew that his continued survival and comfortable gig at Homicide, was entirely due to John Reese's ability to continually keep Lionel's ass out of the fire.

The guy was as tough as they come, but he was still human, and over the months of being used like a bellhop, Fusco very grudgingly admitted he had become almost fond of the big ex-soldier and his secretive little friend. Now John had fallen into the hands of someone who was violent and dangerous for completely different reasons to their normal run of cases.

Lionel was worried. He swung round in a circle trying to get a sense of where John might have gone. He almost missed it. A shapeless bundle on the ground, some cloth flapping in the wind. Lionel glanced back at Finch a few feet behind him "He's here."

John was slumped over on his side, his leg in the plaster cast stuck out at a strange angle.

"John." Lionel grabbed hold of his shoulders and pulled him up into a sitting position. "Reese, c'mon…" he patted John's cheek "JOHN… Wake up." Then Harold was there beside him.

"John…JOHN…"

The blue-gray eyes opened a slit. "You came." It was barely above a whisper, but there was the ghost of a cockeyed smile and Harold Finch realized that he had been holding his breath.

John was bigger and heavier than Finch, so Lionel stripped off his coat and wrapped it round the shivering man.

"If we help you, can you stand up." Finch tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

John nodded. "Yeah." He croaked.

It was a struggle to get him upright, and his tendency to stagger made progress back to the car difficult. Finch was silent, between propping his exhausted and stoned partner up on one side, and trying to figure out how they were going to keep John out of this arrest, his brain was buzzing with how it might be managed.

Joss was already putting Ms Sanders in the back of the car. Finch saw her start at the sight of the state John was in. He saw the look on her face, knew for a certainty that Jocelyn Carter was in love with John Reese. Finch was already well aware that Reese was in love with Carter.

Even considering the strange lifestyle that Finch and Reese lead, this was unconventional in the extreme. Not that John didn't deserve a chance at happiness. Finch dialed for his driver, they needed to get John back to Manhattan and into the care of Dr Tillman.

Megan had patched him up a couple of times, no questions asked.

Finch could see that Joss was torn between the need to see that John was allright, and the need to deal with the suspect.

In the end, Finch's driver arrived, and Joss helped Fusco get John into the car, so the final decision was taken out of her hands.

* * *

The four hours of questioning and paperwork and sending Samantha Sanders to lock up for the murder of her husband, the real Jerry Sanders, pulled out of the East River nearly drove Joss crazy.

She was sure her burning desire to get out of the station and over to John had to be written on her face. Lying to the CIA had become second nature, but keeping calm and carrying on in the face of what had been done to John that was something else altogether.

Jocelyn Carter had never been a clock watcher until now.

* * *

Knowing that Carter was going to want to be with John, Finch decided that one of his smaller apartments would probably be best. Megan Tillman had thoroughly examined John, he seemed to be coming down from the narcotic-induced sleep state that he had been put in. He was suffering from exposure. Together Dr Tillman and Finch had worked to get rid of the cast, strip him of the filthy pyjamas, clean him up and redress him in a pair of clean dry pyjamas. Dr Tillman treated the cuts on his feet from the stony driveway, and prescribed plenty of bed rest to sleep it off.

Reese was suddenly a lot more active, and clearly stoned by whatever had been forced down his throat. Suddenly Finch found himself dealing with a John who really had very little idea of where he was or what was going on, but knew that he wanted Joss.

Thanking the doctor for all her help, Finch tried to apply himself to keeping his large, strong and very restless partner from going out to find Joss dressed only in his pyjamas. He never believed he would be grateful for Carter's arrival on the doorstep.

From the moment Carter arrived to take over, John seemed to quiet down. Finch slipped discreetly down to the bedroom at the end of the hallway, and considered what he would need to purchase in the way of food.

Joss turned herself to looking after John. Thanking heaven that her son was with his grandmother, because she was going to stay the night. She stripped down some of her clothing, and climbed in next to John.

He moved then, curling up against her, his head resting on her hip. Joss slid her arms around him as his went round her waist. "I knew you would come" he muttered.

"What do you mean?" she was wary, he had been drugged, this could have been the narcotic still in his system.

His left hand pushed at his right sleeve, and she saw the lower edge of the tattoo, healing fast. "Tigressssss" he slurred, and pressed close to her.

Joss slid her arms around him and held on tight. When he had the tattoo done she was sure he was crazy. She didn't even like tattoos that much, and the health risks. The tigers seemed to have found the key to John's lonely soul and unlocked the door.

He had done it for her, because he couldn't find the way to say it himself. _Her tiger_.

Finch waited a while before returning to the other bedroom. They were curled up together, arms around each other, John's head resting against Joss's shoulder, her cheek resting against the top of his head.

_Happy together_, wistfully Finch allowed himself a brief dream of what might have been before numbers and the machine, and a man called John.


	4. Chapter 4

"You've got to be kidding me." John tapped his earpiece, "snakes."

"Not just snakes Mr Reese, Dr Sarah Kaufman handles all reptiles. She has a particular fondness for big lizards."

"Thanks for the information, Finch." John settled down into his vantage point again and snapped another series of photographs. So far he couldn't see a viable threat to the zoologist from any thing other than the creatures she was handling.

And she really didn't look like any doctor he could imagine. She was big, and clearly very strong, not particularly tall, but stocky, her bare arms were tattooed and he could see a tattoo that disappeared into her hairline, her brown hair pushed back in a ponytail, khaki cargo pants and a black vest top, Bates' boots. He had little doubt that the rest of her was as tattooed as the parts he could see. Unconventional, Finch had called her. Secretive, reclusive and not exactly friendly, was Reese's take on the situation.

Sarah carried herself in a manner that suggested to Reese that she was highly alert, spatially aware and well able to handle herself. Given the size of the snake that she was confronting with total confidence that came as no surprise. It had taken just half an hour for him to figure out that while she interacted with reptiles with ease and apparent joy, _human interaction (thank you Finch)_ was a mystery to her and one she did not appear to want to unwrap.

Zooming the lens in, he noted with some surprise that she was older than he had imagined at first, around his own age. Not that that made any difference, and logically given her impressive qualifications being in her mid forties did make some sense. What did not make sense was her apparently low level job at the zoo. A job she did with a competence and confidence that clearly made some of her fellow workers a little envious.

"Envy doesn't generally turn people into killers." Muttered John, more to himself than anyone else, forgetting that his line was still open.

"No, but it might be considered a starting point." Finch's dry cultured tones wafted into his ear.

"A starting point would be good here too." Reese retorted. "I can't see a direct approach working. Dr Kaufman seems unusually unfriendly."

"Dr Sarah James Kaufman, 46, only child of Dr Alexander Kaufman and Dr Lucinda Creel. Mother died during a field expedition when Sarah was ten, killed by a lioness in the field when she made a miscalculation during what was supposed to have been a routine observation. Father disappeared into the jungle to study arachnids and various insects of the Amazon Basin and took Sarah with him, they lived in a native village where Sarah was largely taught by her father. She developed her own interest in reptiles there. Boarding School in London at, full ride scholarship, which she declined, to Brown four years later. She paid her own way through college with the money from her Mother's estate. Emerged age 26 with first degree in Zoology and Herpetology, a Masters in biochemistry, headed straight back to the jungle where she did some remarkable field work tracking and studying anacondas, move to Indonesia, did some remarkable field work with Komodo Dragons. Returned here four years ago, apparently having burnt out, took a low level keeper's job at the zoo, rose to the position of head keeper after six months largely because she is the best qualified. The Zoo was hoping for scientific study that would enhance their profile, thus far she has declined to provide them with any staggering insights, and keeps everyone at a distance. Lives alone, has never married, no boyfriend or any indication of sexual activity. Has five bank accounts and an enormous portfolio, which keeps her in food for her own collection. Drives a fifteen year old Land Rover, has a tiny digital footprint, mostly linked to various herpetology websites where she offers advice on keeping snakes."

"In other words, she prefers snakes to people, and has absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in her background." Reese zoomed in and snapped off another couple of shots.

"Ordinarily, a life as dull as this would be some sort of cover, but I have gained the impression, Mr Reese, that this sort of lifestyle would be going too far for even a very covert government agency."

"Still not getting a clue as to how you can get me close to this woman?"

"Patience is a virtue, but I do appreciate the sentiment, Mr Reese." Reese could hear tapping as Harold typed something, "It appears that there are two possibilities here."

Reese sensed he wasn't going to like either option. "What are they?"

"There is an opening for a junior keeper working with Dr Kaufman."

"Next." Reese said flatly.

"Talk to Kari Stephens." Finch sent a picture through to Reese's cell. "Unless I am very much mistaken, this is Kari's work."

Reese studied the picture, the tattoo definitely had the hallmarks of Kari's style, "But she never talks about her clients."

"Well, it's talk to Kari or learn how to cuddle a cobra."

Reese scowled. He liked Kari, but she unnerved him. "When you put it like that, I suppose I don't really have a choice."

"Mr Reese, I thought you would see it that way…"

"Time to learn how to cuddle a cobra."

Finch's lips pinched into a thin line, and an eyebrow arched up in an irritated curve. "I'm afraid for that you will also need Miss Stephens."

"She's into snakes?" Reese was startled. He wouldn't have put Kari down as the snake type.

"She is discreet and she will give you enough pointers to cope for a few days."

* * *

"This is Reggie." Reese eyed the black and grey patterned snake warily. "He's a Ball Python. Axanthic." Kari stretched up to gently drape the small snake around Reese's neck.

"Axanthic? What's that?" The touch of the little python was nothing like Reese had imagined it would be. Reggie was soft and smooth, not even vaguely damp, or slimy, and Reese could feel the muscular movements as the python settled into a position that Reese guessed the snake felt comfortable with. Reese himself wasn't quite so comfortable with the arrangement, especially when Reggie's tail wrapped coyly round his neck and the little snake squeezed slightly.

"Axanthic is Reggie's skin pattern. He's gray and black. There are lots of different coat patterns, but Reggie's an Axanthic." Kari stepped back a little. "I would never, under any normal kind of circumstances do this. But Harold asked nicely. And it is for Sarah."

Reese sensed that justification at this point would not be helpful, so he waited.

"Sarah's complicated. When her old man died she was left with all of the money, and her relatives snapping at her heels like a pack of dogs. Her work suffered, because she couldn't keep an eye and sign things and deal with her family when she was in remote jungle locations; and so she came back here. Now she works at the zoo, and keeps her private work on venom and toxicity to herself." Kari smiled sadly, "she has some rather unusual views on tattoos. I've been tattooing her for four years, she has many more than the ones I have designed for her. And that's pretty much it. If her life is at risk, it's going to be her relatives. But that's only a guess."

She put her hand on his chest then, "John, a piece of advice. If you need to get close to Sarah, don't fake, don't pretend, just be honest with her as far as it's possible. She's different. If it's impossible, she'll probably believe it. And believe me, she can tell if you're lying. She hates being here, but thinks her family will destroy everything if she turns her back on it."

Reese was slightly more concerned with what Reggie was doing. He could feel the flicker of the tongue as the snake explored his skin. Kari grinned. "Relax, he's just seeing if there's anything interesting for him to explore."

Reese cleared his throat. "Reggie doesn't bother me. The monster she was playing with this morning, now that's a different matter."

"Bonnie? Sort of yellow and cream?"

Reese nodded, uncertain of the wisdom of calling a snake that size by a cute feminine name.

"Oh, Bonnie will be the least of your problems."

"Sounds ominous."

Kari sighed, "Sarah has four snakes of her own, a Burmese python called Clarence, he's about five feet longer than the 'monster' from this morning, and about twice as heavy. Then there's Cronos, he's a King Cobra, full venom, about eleven feet long. She has a mating pair of tiger snakes, also full venom. But it's the Komodos you need to watch out for."

"Komodos?"

"Dragons. Big, nasty, hungry, predatory lizards."

John remembered a documentary he'd watched on Discovery when laid up about six months ago, or maybe he was mixing that up with the b-movie he caught one very late night when he was too tired to get up and get the remote to change channels.

Kari watched his face, "you do know the majority of her work has been with the Komodos? That she's got licenses to breed them, and has done successfully? Her lizards have no fear of man. So you have to watch yourself around them."

Reese was beginning to wonder if Dr Sarah Kaufman _was_ the risk instead of at risk. Reggie seemed to have gone to sleep, and was reluctant to let go when Reese unraveled him.

"See. He likes you." Kari took her pet back.

Reese smiled ruefully, thanked her for her help, and set off in search of a change of clothes and a new role.

* * *

Up close, Dr Sarah Kaufman was not unattractive, but she had hard green eyes that weighed Reese up and clearly found him wanting. Her straight black brows met in a line over her nose. "Who are you supposed to be channeling? Rick O'Connell or Indiana Jones. We're not searching for the mummy's tomb or the holy grail, here."

Reese was a little taken aback at that. "The agency said to wear clothing suitable for the outdoors."

Not a flicker in those hard green eyes. Then she turned with a sniff, "listen very carefully, I will say this only once. The only danger in here is you. You are dangerous any time you do things without thinking, or are ignorant of what to do in any given circumstance." She opened the door to the low square building behind her and in the absence of any directions to the contrary, Reese followed. He found himself in a plain corridor with a number of doors lining both sides. "You NEVER open this door without the assistance of at least one other person." She tapped on the first door. It had a card nailed to it that said as much. She turned back so quickly that Reese nearly walked into her. "It might be an idea to take notes." Sarah said pointedly.

She looked up at him, "what did you say your name was?"

"John, ma'am. John Richards."

She sniffed again. "You don't look much like a John to me. More like a Patrick." Reese found himself shifting uncomfortably under her penetrating gaze. "And never 'ma'am'. That's the preserve of the very old and royalty, and I'm neither. Sarah will do as well as anything."

She moved off again down the corridor between the pens and Reese let her instructions and warnings flow over him as he moved behind her, taking in his surroundings carefully. Harold was taping the conversation anyway. He could listen in again in case he missed anything.

She reached the end of the corridor. "Well, that's it." She turned around and he found himself under scrutiny again. "You will forgive me but you are my eighth assistant in less than six months, what made you apply for the position?"

"I was looking for a new challenge?" Reese answered hopefully. That was going to be a tricky one to answer, as he could sense that she wasn't really buying it.

Her eyebrows quirked up a little, and something that looked very like a smirk crossed her lips. "I am a grumpy, elitist, misanthropist with a very short temper, I go through assistants like a bowling ball through nine pins. I will work you like a dog, shout at you, and expect you to get stuck in handling some fairly intractable animals. I need someone who is alert, reasonably intelligent, able to follow orders _UPON WHICH YOUR LIFE COULD POSSIBLY DEPEND_, is prepared to handle whatever I dish out and catch on quick. Think you might be up to the challenge?"

That one was a little difficult to respond to, but Reese knew he would never get a better chance to get on her right side.

"Yes." It was on the tip of Reese's tongue to say 'ma'am' but he guessed that would not endear him to his very difficult subject.

There was something in her shrewd expression that told him she had read his mind, divined what she wanted from it and was, for now, satisfied. But he didn't believe for a moment that he had gained her complete trust.

Those hard green eyes searched his face for signs of duplicity, he kept still and schooled his expression to neutral. Finally she nodded. "You might do. Turn up tomorrow at 06.30 sharp, do not consume alcohol tonight, and stay away from spicy food, and go very easy on the cologne you wear. You really don't want to present them with any more of a juicy target than you already do."

There was something in her look which told Reese she was well aware of exactly what she had just said, that the double entendre was not only meant, but was some sort of test.

He kept his expression neutral and his tone non-committal as he spoke. "Yes…" the ma'am trembled on the tip of his tongue, he caught it back, intentionally, "Sarah."

The corners of her lips quirked up, for a brief flash the hardness vanished from her eyes, the twin pools a warm shimmering emerald. She wasn't Carter, or Zoe, but there was something surprisingly exotic about her. And she was well aware that he had seen her bid and raised one of his own.

_Okay, we've impressed each other. Now what_. He had the feeling that he was going to have to rethink his strategy. Perhaps Finch had something back at the library that could help.

His Brazilian miss was an inexperienced young woman, Reese had managed to deal with her using a mixture of experience and charm. He had the feeling that Sarah Kaufman would be difficult to charm. She was mature, experienced and this was clearly not her first time to the dance.

At first he had taken her for a geek of no real experience. He should have known better after Grace, that not all geeks followed the accepted practice of a wallflower existence. Grace and Harold had had four years, and for all that John Reese knew, they could have had forty more, if Harold had not decided to protect Grace in the way that he had done.

Reese didn't like feeling off balance. And so far Sarah Kaufman was keeping him as near to off balance as he had ever been. He wasn't a vain man, but he was no fool, he knew he was attractive to the opposite sex, and he was more than capable of charming them when he chose or the occasion warranted it. As much as he was loathe to admit it, there was something in her make up that attracted him to Sarah.

_A fine romance with no kissing_. With the prospect that her monsters might consume him before they were done.

He knew one way he could try and cement things with her. Kari's tattoos. He had idly checked out her various visible markings, Sarah's skin art was mostly tribal in style, but there were a couple that he could see that were clearly Kari's more pictorial work.

Behind the door marked "do not enter alone", Reese had cause to have second thoughts about this assignment. Followed by third, fourth, fifth and sixth thoughts. He wasn't usually given to foul language, but Clarence the Burmese Python more than warranted it.

Reese thought back, _intractable_ didn't cover the half of it. Apparently today was weigh and measure day, as Clarence had shed. If he had thought the zoo's "Bonnie" was a big snake, Clarence was positively gigantic.

His job was to wrangle the back end, as Sarah handled the head. The muscular power was actually unnerving, at one point Clarence's tail wrapped around Reese's waist, the crushing pressure made Reese gasp for breath and tense up. "Relax, grab the tail and push away. SIMEON." Sarah bellowed, and a gangly student appeared in the doorway. "Help us out here." The younger man grabbed the tail end, and between them they managed to make enough space for Reese to free himself.

Finally Sarah pronounced herself satisfied, and Clarence was freed to return to his rock. Reese stared at the massive coils, the snake's head in the centre, and could have sworn that the creature was glaring at him.

"And that is why we never handle anything over twelve feet alone." He listened to her lecture, admiring her skill and dedication. "Clarence is now over sixteen feet. Twelve foot can crush a six foot adult man with relative ease. You were rather lucky that Clarence wasn't hungry."

It was unusual for Reese to feel anxious and threatened by an animal, but the pissed-off python was a whole different matter. Silently vowing to avoid further contact with Clarence if at all possible, Reese spent the rest of the day following orders.

By the end of the day, he was tired, dirty, but had the feeling that Sarah was beginning to accept his presence and even be relaxed in his general proximity.

Which was very nice, but got him no closer to discovering the answer to the riddle. If there was a human threat he was not seeing it, or understanding why there would be a threat. And Sarah was a tough read, to state the case mildly. She had a real affinity with her very dangerous charges.

Putting in a full day at the zoo as well as with Sarah's own collection, Reese found himself worked harder than he had been in a long time. She wasn't patient, she shouted a lot, at him, at the junior keepers, her patience and understanding seemed entirely reserved for the reptiles.

Reese remembered Harold's crack about having breached the space-time continuum. Sarah seemed more than capable of that herself. He watched her effortlessly side-step the lunge of the very large dragon which had maneuvered in right behind her when she was feeding them.

He was impressed. Her spatial awareness and ability to plan ahead seemed even better than his own. In an unguarded moment he said as much, she looked at him then, and suddenly he had the tiniest opening.

She actually smiled. "It isn't that big a trick. You know them, you know their habits, their thoughts and desires. It isn't so very different from people. It's just a case of planning ahead of what they might want to do, and simply not being there when they do it. Being aware of what is around you is never a bad plan wherever you are."

"Most people seem to go through life with their eyes shut." He wasn't sure if he was referring to himself or the general public.

"Then they're missing out on what life has to offer." Her smile was enigmatic. He could sense truce, and he smiled then himself.

She watched the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the laughter lines, the sparkle in his eyes that changed them from blue-gray to silver, and sighed inwardly, although she kept her expression neutral. She doubted that John Richards was working for her for the challenge, or even that Richards was his real name. But he was smart, had no problem following orders and caught on quick. He had done every single thing she had asked of him, including the more disgusting jobs which she had frankly saddled him with to see how much he could or would take. He'd done the lot without whining or complaining, and a hell of a lot more efficiently than some of her more experienced assistants.

In spite of herself Sarah was impressed. It was a pity that he would be unlikely to last long, she knew this really wasn't his normal job.

John wondered how long it would be before they established what the threat was. Sarah Kaufman was well able to take care of herself, but John was quite enjoying being with her, Kari was right, Sarah was very different.

It was going home time, and he wanted to change his shirt, something of a calculated move in front of Dr Kaufman but worth the risk. He stripped off his shirt and reached into his duffle bag for a clean one. Her eyes went straight to the tattoo. A knowing smile spread across her face, "ah" she said, a wealth of meaning in that _ah_. "Kari."

It was a statement that needed no answer. "Goodnight, Sarah." He picked up his bag, it was going to be a long night, but he had some downtime courtesy of Lionel, with nothing better to do, spelling him on surveillance duty. Back to the library, shower, food and then relieve Lionel.

"Finch. Are you there?"

"Yes, Mr Reese. I have some information to go through."

"I'm on my way back."


End file.
